


devil's dive

by abatt0ir



Category: Beetlejuice (1988), Beetlejuice (Cartoon 1989), Beetlejuice - All Media Types, Beetlejuice - Perfect/Brown & King
Genre: Cowgirl Position, F/M, Lapdance, Missionary Position, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Stripping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:40:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24838585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abatt0ir/pseuds/abatt0ir
Summary: On the night Bambi Sinclaire, 24, dies, it is absolutely sweltering in Hackensack, New Jersey.(Later, after the police officers have cleared out, when the body has been moved but the soul remains, she'll blame the heat. And the tequila. And Tiffany.)
Relationships: Beetlejuice/Originial Female Character(s)
Kudos: 17





	devil's dive

**Author's Note:**

> my contribution to the inferno girl oc challenge in our beetlejuice discord server. 
> 
> a series of vignettes from the life of of a demon stripper, pre- and post-mortem. thanks clair for letting me borrow her oc, lamia, and thanks everyone else on the server for participating in this challenge!

On the night Bambi Sinclaire, 24, dies, it is absolutely sweltering in Hackensack, New Jersey.

(Later, after the police officers have cleared out, when the body has been moved but the soul remains, she'll blame the heat. And the tequila. And _Tiffany_.)

“Okay, so, it’s called a Russian Layback, see, look,” Tiffany, who approaches their chosen profession with the sort of rigorous discipline one might expect from a professional athlete, shoves a magazine under Bambi's nose, tapping on the page with one impeccably manicured finger. Its Valentines day next week, and she’s got a tiny rhinestone heart glued to the nail. "I figure you climb the pole, do _that_ , add a drop, we'll call it the Devil's Dive!"

Distracted from applying another coat of spidery mascara, Bambi (she'd been so shaky, her first time in heels, like a baby deer) regards the image with suspicion. It's a limber young woman in a sports bra and shorts, upside down on the pole - legs locked, spine arched, hands above her head and gripping the cold steel. It’s sinuous and sexy and completely impossible.

"Tiff, baby, that is a pole fitness _enthusiast_. We are _strippers_."

Tiffany rolls her eyes. “Is there a difference?”

Bambi, who approaches their chosen profession with much more pragmatism, pops a Virginia Slim into her mouth and rummages about on the messy countertop for a lighter. “Yes. That is a perfectly nice young lady who got bored of yoga and decided it might spice things up with _Chad_ if she took a pole class. She has a core strength I will _never_ possess.”

Tiffany, bless her, offers up a light. Bambi takes it, grateful. “What I _do_ have is a fat ass, and the ability to shake it.”

Frowning, Tiffany takes back her magazine. “It doesn’t look _that_ hard - Girls in Atlantic City do pole tricks, I saw when I went down for my Nana's funeral. Aren’t you tired of doing the same thing every night?” 

Taking a last long look in the mirror, Bambi deems tonight’s look _good enough_. There’s a fine line, makeup wise, between 'clown' and 'hooker that caters exclusively _to_ clowns', and she's fairly certain she's landed on the correct side of that distinction. Even if she hasn't, the club she works at, Devil's Dive will be too dark to tell that she look more like Pennywise than Miss Moneypenny. Def Leppard blares over the speakers in the dressing room. “Not as tired as I am of hearing “Pour Some Sugar on Me”. Seems like a really good way to get a yeast infection. C’mon, we’ve got money to make.”

\---

Bambi got into sex work for the money, most of them do. But she stayed for the _love_. 

She's always been good at flirting. No good at relationships, never has been, but here in the club, this neon cathedral to sin an excess, she's the high priestess of the tease. It might be the confidence boost that comes with the six inch heels, the halo of bubblegum pink extensions in her hair, the way guys here seem to love that she's closer to a size twelve than a size two. Here, she's never had to hate the softness of her stomach, the way her stockings dig into her thighs, the fact there's _more_ of her, and not less. 

Someone buys her a shot - well vodka, cheap and awful, and it stings going down.

(It's not the first drink she's had tonight, and it won't be the last.)

He's sitting at the end of the bar, obscured mostly in shadow and cigarette smoke, and she beckons him to the back for a dance. 

"You from around here?" He sits, splay-legged in the dark cubicle, and up close he looks like he hasn't slept in a year. She can't tell if he's handsome or not, the lack of light and the haze of liquor makes it hard to tell. It doesn't matter. 

"Naw, just passin' through," he's got a voice like gravel, and he looks her up and down like she's a side of beef. Bambi shivers - which is insane, because it's about a hundred degrees. "Got a job needs doin', aaaaaand not enough time to do it in, but, y'now, guy needs a little R&R every now and then, you know what I mean? Gotta report back tomorrow mornin', if ya can believe it?"

Bambi cocks her head to one side, considering. "Report back? You on parole or something?"

The guy barks out a laugh. "Somethin' like that. Now, you gonna gimme a dance or what?" He extends a hand with a crumpled twenty in it, and when their fingers touch, his are strangely cool. "C'mon, get on daddy's lap."

Giving lap dances is something of an art form - the patron is not _supposed_ to touch, which is of course, necessary for the safety of the dancers, but does mean that a girl is forced to rub herself against a stiff, boner-sporting mannequin, moaning all the while like it's the most erotic thing she's ever done. She drapes herself over his thighs, pressing generous tits against his chest, rolling her hips in a slow, languorous grind. He watches her with narrowed eyes, loose and relaxed in his seat, like there isn't a girl writhing in his lap.

Maybe he's just had a lot of dances, and it doesn't phase him much anymore - it still rankles her, just the littlest bit. The music throbs, in time with the beat of her heart, she feels sweat at the nape of her neck and a hot, liquid pulse low in her belly. It's been a while since she's been turned on at all by her work, it's kind of nice. She rides the wave of it, pressing in closer, bringing her mouth close to his, plucking his cigarette from his jagged smile, and taking a long drag on it. 

He inhales the smoke from her lips, exhales through his nostrils, smiling at her, feral and predatory.

She feels a cool hand at her waist, and doesn't bat it away. She arches into his touch, suddenly wet and aching and if she were less of a professional she might just ride his thigh for the next three minutes. Instead, she lets him run rough palms over her breasts, her ass, the tender insides of her thighs, and when she moans she isn't faking at _all_. 

When the song ends, she looks at him, a little dazed, and he coughs out a laugh. "You're a real spitfire, kid. I'll, uh, be seeing you, if you know what I mean."

She doesn't. 

\---

Shaken, Bambi tosses back another shot, or maybe its two.

(When they test her blood alcohol level, they'll find her "impaired", check a little box on a form, note it on her toe tag.)

3am, an hour before close, and the crowd is starting to thin out. Thrown off her game, a little wobbly in her shoes, she tries to settle back into her pouty, silly, chatty, sex-doll schtick, it's just not sliding into place. She's feels...raw, a live wire or exposed nerve, like every little touch is electric, every gaze on her tits and ass and face and legs hot and obvious. The club feels like a strange, holy place, her body an altar, and it's probably the adrenaline and the booze but she feels like the high priestess of some carnal religion.

A blood sacrifice to a dirty, blissful god. 

It's her turn to dance, a dark, hypnotic beat thumps from of the blown-out speakers. She starts to sway, spin, tries to lose herself in it. She remembers the Devil's Dive. 

The song swells (Trent Reznor begging whoever will listen to let him fuck them like an animal) and Bambi shimmies up the pole, locks her legs, arches her spine, finds the pole with her hands, feels sinuous and sexy and _triumphant_.

(It's a sweltering night in Hackensack, New Jersey, the night Bambi Sinclaire dies.)

She feels her grip on the pole loosen, the sweat beading in the pit of her knee and along the backs of her thighs causing her to slip - to fall, headfirst - to land with a sickening crunch on the stage below. 

\---

Life after death isn't all that different.

She still dances, after all.

Her head doesn't quite sit right anymore, and lolls off to one side like her spine is a slinky, but that's easily corrected with a posture collar or particularly tall choker. Sometimes, other girls in the house will steal it for a laugh, and Bambi will stomp down the stairs in a huff, head bouncing cheerily around on her broken neck, demanding they give it back.

When she looks in the mirror she doesn't much remember what she looked like without the horns, without skin the color of wintergreen gum, and she doesn't much mind, either. They never pay Def Leppard at The Inferno Room. Some of the girls are sweet, some aren't, it sometimes feels less like a brothel and more like a sorority. Maybe one in a porno. 

She's quick to learn there are a few folks with VIP status. She's even quicker to learn what those folks can do for her. 

"Beej, I'll blow you for a pack of Virginia Slims," she chirps from the couch, where she's lying upside down, legs in the air, waiting for her nails to dry. Somewhere behind her, she hears a snort that might have been derisive, might have been genuine amusement - probably Lamia, who Bambi finds chilly and _awesome_ in turns. 

"Baby, you'd blow me for fun," he drops a carton into her lap and Bambi squeals with genuine delight. Scrambling to sit upright, she pops one in her mouth, lighting it with one of the ever-present, eternally flickering candles in the Inferno Room, and takes a life (death?)-affirming drag. 

(Nicotine is one of the only things in the Neitherworld that tastes like anything, and it tastes like being _alive_.)

He seems to materialize in front of her, a hellish vision in black and white, adjusting the crotch of his pants, an expectant look in his snake-yellow eyes. Bambi had no illusions about Betelgeuse (he spelled it out for her on a cocktail napkin once) - he'd just as soon fuck any of the girls in the house, probably any willing body (dead or alive) he could get his nasty hands on. But she likes their banter, likes _him_ \- he's gross and funny and mean and treats her like a dumb little girl or an annoying kid sister _right_ up until he's fucking her into the mattress.

She huffs out a cloud of smoke, and he plucks the cigarette from her fingers. "You gonna thank me like a good girl, or what?"

Bambi eyes him, spreading her legs slowly, making room for him to wedge himself between her thighs. "Struck out with The Witch, huh? You grab her ass again? I told you, those are top tier goods, you gotta pay for 'em."

His face contorts in annoyance at having been _caught_ , just for a moment, before smoothing out into pure predator. "C'mon, a guy could use a little appreciation once in a while, show _daddy_ some love, will ya?" 

Bambi stands - not on duty, she's barefoot, and stands a full head shorter than Betelgeuse, a fact he lords over her because he knows it revs her engine. _Asshole_. "One of these days, you're going to hit a point of diminishing returns on being a charming pervert. _Daddy_ thing's kinda played out, isn't it?" 

He cackles, slapping her ass as she slides past - grabbing him by the lapel of his jacket to drag him to her room. "I'll stop when it stops gettin' you wet, kid."

\---

The thing is, he isn't _wrong_. 

Betelgeuse rarely undresses fully, preferring to lounge on the edge of her bed in his trousers and shirtsleeves, rolled up over mossy forearms.

Shimmying out of her day-off sweats isn't _much_ of a striptease, but Bambi is, after all, a professional. Though this is strictly off the books - if the house mother knew she was giving away freebies (even to a long-term, VIP client), she'd be in _trouble_. But rules, like relationships, were never her strong suit. 

_Fun_ , on the other hand...

She watches through hooded eyes as he frees his cock, giving it a rough stroke, leering at her all the while like he's _not_ just the most annoying man (demon?) she's ever met. If she was still aboveground, she'd probably be more embarrassed about being turned on by his crudeness, but this is death, and regret is for the living. Instead, she climbs into his lap, find the hard line of his cock with the slickness of her cunt and rolls her hips, slow and sinuous. No penetration, just creating friction, urging the loose curl of lust in the pit of her stomach to begin to twist tighter. Betelgeuse, to his credit, seems nothing but bemused. 

"Pack of smokes, that really all it takes? Hey, back in _my_ day you used to have to woo a girl, flowers, compliment her tits, whole nine yards, you know what I mean? Not you, doll, all I gotta do is give you a fix and you're all _over_ me." Bambi pauses to glare at him. He laughs, ragged and nasty, and definitely at her expense. "Didn't say I was complaining!"

"You know, I could make you go downstairs and _pay_ for the privilege-"

He's surprisingly strong - the beer gut belies that particular fact. She tends to forget, which is why she squeals in delighted surprise when he grabs her ass and flips the pair of them, shoving her roughly down onto the mattress, fitting himself into the cradle of her hips. "Yeah, but you _won't,"_ his voice is has lowered to a growl, reverberating in her brain and throbbing in her cunt. With a shove of his hips, he's inside her, thick and hard and hot, and Bambi can't help but _whine_. "You'll let me fuck this cunt, which some folks pay _big money_ for, for free, just for the hell of it. Y'know, this is why I'm a repeat customer, it's the quality of the _service_ ," he punctuates his sentence with a brutal thrust, and Bambi can't help but moan, sigh, giggle breathlessly. 

"We should, ah, _fuck_ " her back arches, pleasure sizzling down her spine as he finds an angle that makes her see stars, "we should get you a punchcard. Tenth fuck's free."

When he laughs this time, it's not at her expense."Genius! Now _shut up._ "

He kisses her, it's hot and messy, his ragged teeth nipping painfully at her lower lip. She tastes blood, and sex, and Betelgeuse.

Tastes a little like being alive. 


End file.
